Too many choices....

Now I appreciate that this sounds like an odd thing to say, and also as if I m moaning (again) but sitting on this sofa really isn't the pleasant and comfortable experience that DFS intended it to be.

This of course is not the fault of the sofa, which is, under normal circumstances, very comfortable indeed, and entirely the fault of the beachball-like appendage attached to my midriff.  I am told that birthing balls are good in these circumstances, but I am not sure they are good for balancing a laptop or, for that matter, my dinner.  Also, what does one do with a birthing ball after one has given birth?  It hardly seems worth the time, expense or sacrifice of harmonious interior design.

Anyway, the baby's head is now engaged.  At least, this is what I was told by the midwife today.  She also thinks he may have turned around and be facing the right way.  HALLELUJAH.  Hopefully this means I will not have to endure "back labour" and be screaming for an epidural before I've managed to breathe through the first contraction.  Although that said, someone at work was singing the praises of epidurals today and saying she couldn't believe she had endured her first two labours with only gas and air and wished she's realised the benefits of painlessness sooner.  I am so confused.  I thought epidurals were all wrong and a way of evil male doctors reinforcing the patriarchy by making women lie down and endure being ripped apart with forceps and scalpels.  I mean, that's what my hypnobirthing books say.  I am so confused.  My hypnobirthing books also say women in Africa give birth by finding a suitably secluded tree, then crouching down and breathing the baby out painlessly, which contrasts hugely with what I've read in the Guardian, which says women in Africa are all suffering needlessly long labours which last for weeks on end and culminate in obstetric fistula.  In whom is a confused mother-to-be to place her trust?  The Guardian probably has a better claim to authenticity, given that it has previously been right about a number of things, such as that Jeremy Clarkson is a knob and that nobody looks good in dungarees, but then I did see a recipe for saag paneer in there today that didn't include tomatoes and I like tomatoes in my saag paneer, so perhaps I cannot live my life blindly following the Rules of Being a Liberal Feminist set by the Guardian.  Also I remain conflicted by an article I read in there a while ago which suggested that same-sex marriage should be opposed by all right-thinking liberals as marriage as a concept reinforces the patriarchal idea that women are the chattels of their husbands and therefore no one-gay or straight-should get married.

The latter is a convenient view for a washed up spinster such as myself to pretend to have, though.

Although the Gaurdian also says I am not a washed up spinster, and that no woman should feel defined by their marital status or how good the Daily Mail says they look in a bikini, which is an even more convenient view to have.

GOD I AM SO CONFLICTED ABOUT LIFE, THE UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING.  How am I going to write a birth plan expressing my "choices" when there is no consensus about what the right choice is, ever, about anything?

Sudden Panic at Actual Realisation that I am about to become Really, Really Poor

AAAAARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

This pretty much sums up how I felt when I saw how much (read: *little*) I am going to get in maternity pay.  Seriously, it's so bad I almost considered having Little One adopted.

WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?

I am literally terrified.  Why am I not married?  WHY WHY WHY?

OK, need to calm down now.  Things could be worse.  I could have terminal cancer, for example.  Or I could be one of the kidnapped schoolgirls in Nigeria.  Or I could be Madeleine McCann.  This really isn't all that bad in the great scheme of things.  I haven't been kidnapped by Boko Haram, or burnt at the stake as a witch in medieval times.  I don't work as a prostitute in Whitechapel in 1888 and consequently Jack the Ripper poses no risk to me at all.

I might need to start working as a prostitute though if things get really rough.

It'll be OK.  It'll be like Pretty Woman and I can prance about in thigh-length boots and court gentlemen who are extremely wealthy and not at all seedy.

Everything is going to be OK.  I just need to breathe.  I'll just master the art of self hypnosis and mindful breathing and everything will be fine.

Went to my first NCT antenatal class last night.  Hilarious.  Some of the men were asking very silly questions about birth.  Men are silly.  I don't need a husband.  No, not at all.  I, on the other hand, was a total swot, showing off my knowledge about all things birth related to the assembled clueless marrieds.  I've read a few books on this subject you know, I'm practically a midwife.  Anyway, all was good until the end, when we had to work in pairs with our husbands (HA!) and do some dancing.  It was at that point that I could tell the woman running the course felt sorry for me as though I was some sort of Abandoned Wife.  It could have been worse to be fair, as when she first said we needed to work in pairs with the partners I thought for one horrifying moment that there was going to be a discussion of perineal massage.  PERINEAL MASSAGE, ladies and gentlemen.  It's ACTUALLY A THING!  The hypnobirthing book has an entire chapter devoted to perineal massage, that's how much of a thing it is.

Anyway, I'm going to get into the bath now and try some breathing techniques to calm myself down.  Hell, I might even engage in a spot of perineal massage while I'm at it.  It's supposed to reduce the likelihood of tearing.  Lovely.

My Wild Night of Smoking and Drinking

Apparently Katie Price is pregnant with her fifth child.

Now despite my concern at the alarming prospect that the world may be being single-handedly repopulated by Katie Price (possibly with help from Kerry Katona), there is some grounds for hope here.  After all, Katie Price is older than me.  And at my age, anyone older than me being pregnant is grounds for a celebration.  I am not over the hill.  I am not the Oldest Mother-to-be in The World.  Maybe I even have time to marry someone and have another child after this one, despite the ever-lengthening odds.  There is hope.

In other news, as I may or may not have already said, I am now in the third trimester, which is obviously brilliant.  I never thought I would get this far, and Little One is poking me from the inside pretty much constantly, which is also brilliant.

Went to my second hypnobirthing class yesterday, and practised some deepening, relaxation, visualisation and affirmation techniques.  I'm not sure how helpful either of the latter two in particular are likely to be, but I have stuck some visualisation pictures up in my bedroom-one of an opening flower that is supposed to represent the cervix and vagina opening to let the baby out; and the other is a drawing of a baby in the womb, in the correct position for birth.  Hopefully visualising positive things works better that the many times I have visualised negative things and they have not happened, such as being on a plane plunging into the sea from a great height; or being attacked and robbed of my house keys on the way home when desperate for the toilet (number twos).  Not that I'm disappointed that neither of those things have so far come to pass, obviously.

As for the affirmations, all I can say is that I have to believe that chanting "I am ready to birth my baby. My body is designed perfectly to birth my baby in the easiest way possible" is going to be useful when the time comes, otherwise the whole thing is a waste of three hundred quid that could have been spent buying a Michael Kors tote to use as a changing bag.

Just put the TV on.  First thing that came on was snooker.  Snooker.  On a Sunday night.  This is an outrage.  Why isn't Downton Abbey on?  Who watches snooker anyway?

Anyway, last night I had a wild night of smoking and drinking.  It was just like the old days.  Well, OK I didn't really smoke even in the old days, but last night I was sat perilously close to a barbecue, and there was smoke coming off it, which I'm not sure was great for the baby, as I had to occasionally cough and bat the smoke away with an extremely ineffective hand flourish.  And also I wasn't really drinking (unlike the old days), but I did have an enormous wine glass filled with fantastically wine-resembling soft drink Shloer, which I believe prompted more than a few disapproving glances.  I can't wait to drink again.  I wish I was drinking now.  Although obviously I also wish that drinking was completely safe and had no detrimental effect on babies or their mothers.  I suppose that's a bit like saying I wish no bad stuff ever happened, ever, though.

The Many Manifestations of Breathing

First hypnobirthing session today.

This turned out not to be the hideous middle class smug married experience I had been expecting, for the simple reason that I was the only person on the course.

So no cheating with the breathing exercises then and slacking off half way through to scratch the many inevitable itches that suddenly break out all over one's body when forced to meditate.

Also failure to do homework will certainly be noticed.

"Homework" in this context involves practising breathing.  Obviously this is something I do all the time, just like every other living creature on this earth, but this is a specific type of breathing.  Three specific types in fact; one to relax you, one to see you through the contractions ("surges," as they are diplomatically renamed for hypnobirthing purposes) and lastly one to actually get the baby out.

This last one must be practised on the toilet, and I am happy to say that it has worked so far, if that's not a TMI overload.  Though of course one can never be sure whether it was the breath that did it, or the simple fact that I just really needed to go.

Anyway, I am knackered after all that breathing exertion, so am going to go to bed now and practise the "relaxing" one.

When does the nesting instinct kick in?

Yet again I am engaged in the deadly habit of procrastination.  Why is it that every time the holidays roll around I fool myself into thinking that if I do one productive thing per day-just one-then the entire day has been a success?  Today's "productive task" consisted of emailing some photos that I had promised to a friend; a task which, even at 26 weeks pregnant and rapidly expanding, was hardly taxing.  Well done me, I sent an email.  Meanwhile the flat remains in the sort of state that would have even the stars (contestants?  Victims?  "Stars" scarcely seems accurate) of the Jeremy Kyle Show ringing social services.

In fact, several of the participants on today's show had the accusation levelled at them that they couldn't be good parents (mothers.  It's always the mothers.  No one ever chides the men for being poor homemakers.  Not even Jeremy, who chides them for pretty much everything else) because their houses were "a tip."

Hmm.  I have the shattered remains of a cardboard box lying on the floor next to the dishwasher which formerly housed a piece of furniture I had delivered in February.  FEBRUARY.  Well, chopping it up into little bits so that it fits into the recycling chute requires effort.

Apparently, according to one of my books on hypnobirthing, just before a woman gives birth she suddenly develops a "nesting instinct," and runs fretfully around the house, cleaning and prepping everything in sight for the arrival of the baby.  I so wish this would happen to me.  At the moment I can't even be bothered to change the sheets on the bed (requires effort) and have been running the tumble dryer on repeat all day under the pretext that the clothes in there are not quite dry and so the washing machine cannot yet be freed up for cleaning sheets.  This is not because I don't want my sheets to be clean-everyone loves a clean sheet-but because I cannot bear the task of trying to stretch a fresh one over the bed, or worse, the horror of changing the duvet cover, the thought of which is enough to bring me out in a cold sweat.  This is why I need a husband.  I promise I will cook every meal he ever requires if he promises to change the bedclothes in perpetuity.

As my mother would say, in the verbal equivalent of shaking an accusatory finger at me, "You had better get this flat sorted out when the baby comes my girl."  

Almost 23 weeks and apparently still irresistible to malingerers outside Wembley Park tube

The hypnobirthing craze continues.

I have just purchased a set of five hypnobirthing classes.  They are in Hounslow, which is not the best location, but pretty much all the classes I could find were based in the so-called "Nappy Valley" area of South West London which stretches roughly from Herne Hill to somewhere just short of Kingston, and the one in Hounslow was the closest I could find to a normal-read, "dreary"-place.  And even that had to boast about its close proximity to Twickenham.

I fully expect the class to be full of middle class marrieds and I shall be cast out like a hopeless singleton.  Or worse, given pitying looks by smug marrieds who think I have been tragically abandoned by the baby's father.

I'd better start perfecting my early nineties Princess Diana tragic-yet-brave wronged wife face.

Anyway, speaking of abandonment, today I was astonished-nay, flabbergasted (the very highest form of astonishment.  The longer the word, the greater the shock) to be chatted up by an idiot outside Wembley Park tube station.

I could tell that he was about to start berating me for simply looking awkward and not wanting to answer his questions, rather than coming across all coy and flattered that he had deemed me worthy of being approached, as these idiots who chat up women in the street invariably seem to think we will all react, when I pulled out my trump card; "Er, I'm six months pregnant."

I had never seen someone disappear so fast.  It was AMAZING.

Admittedly this was after I'd had to endure the usual idiotic questions, which invariably start with "Where are you from?"

I really do not understand this question.  I mean, what are they expecting me to say?  That I just landed from the planet Zyborg 300 and are there any good bars round here?

Also, how is one supposed to answer, with a full life story outlining all the places one has ever lived?  Or does one simply answer with the obvious, the obvious being "England."  I chose the latter, which for some unknown reason seemed to be a surprise, despite the fact that we were most definitely in England at the time, and I do not look remotely foreign, nor speak with an accent that could be described as in any way exotic or unusual for the location we were in.

The fool commented that he was surprised by this, as I apparently look like I am from "Australia or New Zealand."

Meaning what, exactly?  That I am white (as are roughly 90 per cent of the population of the UK, so not sure how this was such a shock)?  That I look like I've just stepped off a surfboard on Bondi Beach?  Unlikely, given that I was wearing a fur coat at the time.  That I look like I'm about to throw another shrimp on the barbie?  Also unlikely, given fur coat situation.  In fact, having just whizzed through every stereotype of a person from the continent of Oceania, I'd say I don't fit any of them at all. Least of all the ones that involve liking rugby, being a bit outdoorsy or wearing a hat with corks attached.

Honestly, I cannot believe that anyone seriously thinks that a) hanging around outside a tube station hoping to pull is likely to succeed or b) that "where are you from?" is a decent chat up line.  Nor do I understand how these fools think that us women are going to be flattered by someone walking up to us when we are trying to get home and giving us unwanted and frankly intimidating attention on the street.

When my boy is born I think this may be the very first fact of life I need to teach him.

Hypnobirthing a Giant Baby

I have just officially become a New Age Hippy Earth Mother Type.

Well, perhaps not quite.

I bought two books on hypnobirthing today, then decided I was going to get properly into it and try all the suggested "exercises," unlike with the normal self-help, self-improvement tomes which I just read, nod head occasionally whilst maintaining high degree of cynicism, then toss to one side and ignore (hello that book How To Be a Man Magnet which I once inadvisably bought and which then remained hidden under the bed for the next five years before I finally smuggled it into a charity shop.  For the record, being a "man magnet" involves wearing a white blouse undone to a critical point and tossing one's hair at every opportunity).

I have just "woken" from my hypnotic state after listening to a 33 minute long recording of someone giving soundbites such as "trust your body" and "relax" over and over again in what I call the Voice of Yoga Nidra.

Yoga Nidra is something we had to do on that yoga retreat that I went to in Ireland last year.  It involved lying very still and trying not to laugh while the Voice of Yoga Nidra told us we were variously walking through a forest, diving into a lake with a giant crystal in it and finding our inner goddess.  Needless to say I spent most of it intermittently shaking with laughter and fighting the urge to scratch various parts of my body when I was supposed to be staying still.

Fortunately, this time I was in the comfort of my own home, so didn't have to keep up appearances in front of a room full of people who were all Taking It Very Seriously.  I was even able to reply to a text message halfway through.  I'm pretty sure that's not supposed to be allowed.

Anyway, the text message was from my mother.  Somewhat symbolic, I'd say, since she has spent the last thirty years telling me I will "definitely" need a Caesarean, and I'm now trying to undo those thirty years of negative messages about my body's capabilities via the rather pathetic medium of listening to a download about relaxing and trusting my body.

Anyway, my mother may be right if the calculations of various random people at work about the size of my bump are anything to go by.  It seems that not a day goes past without someone commenting about how big I am.  This is usually followed by a concerned look when I gleefully tell them that the sperm donor was a 10lbs behemoth.  Still, not much I can do about that now.  Except possibly stop eating and maybe take up smoking as a food substitute, but I don't think either of those are recommended.

Just have to "trust my body" I suppose.